Kurtherian Gambit Boxed Set Three: Books 15-21, Never Submit, Never Surrender, Forever Defend, Might Makes Right, Ahead Full, Capture Death, Life Goes On (Kurtherian Gambit Boxed Sets Book 3)

by Michael Anderle

  “Oh, that.” Frank sat down. “Old news.”

  Both Admiral Thomas and Barnabas narrowed their eyes as Frank smiled. “What? I’m not giving away my sources.”

  “And that is why you are the Info-master.” Admiral Thomas pursed his lips. “Can I ask how you know?”

  “Sure,” Frank agreed. “But I’ll have to ask you to keep it to yourself.”

  Admiral Thomas thought about it for a moment. “Okay.”

  “Barb is a hopeless romantic, and has schemes upon schemes to hook people up. She sent the lady your way.”

  “Well.” He stopped talking for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and finished, “Sometime I’ll have to thank her, and you, for keeping that to yourselves.”

  “Barb likes the hunt. She doesn’t share the knowledge just because she can.”

  “Good woman,” the Admiral replied. “Rare, but really good.”

  “No comment,” Stephen threw in. “I’m still dealing with mine.”

  Lance looked at Stephen. “Does Jennifer have any suggestions about finding Bethany Anne?”

  “Only that a woman will only be found when she wants to be, or at least that’s true for Bethany Anne. The challenge is, are we looking for Bethany Anne or Baba Yaga?”

  “It does all tend to come back to that,” Frank agreed.

  “What do we need to do now, and what do we need to do for the potential new Federation, Lance?” Admiral Thomas asked.

  Lance played with his coffee cup, twirling it around with his fingers. “Well, when we get Bethany Anne back we need to ask her to go on vacation.”

  Stephen coughed into his hand. “Not really sure that will be a problem.”

  “The ‘getting her back without causing an interstellar situation’ part would be nice,” Barnabas said aloud. “Remember, as Baba Yaga she is a representative of the Empress, who isn’t here right now to help with anyone who might be pissed off by the Witch running all over their civil rights to track down and kill the Kurtherians.”

  “They need a heavy dose of killing,” Stephen replied, “so from that perspective I completely agree with her efforts.”

  Lance said, “Yes, and those efforts are part of what keeps the Federation talks so exciting.”

  “Which is a euphemism for?” Frank asked.

  “A royal pain in the ass, with a side of ‘a kick to the nuts,’” Lance replied.

  “They don’t want her in the Federation, and she doesn’t want to be Empress.” Frank shrugged. “I’m not seeing the problem.”

  “There isn’t a problem with that,” Lance said. “And they will pay a very pretty penny for giving Bethany Anne exactly what she wants. The big issue is what they want from the Etheric Empire to help create the Etheric Federation.”

  Frank looked to his friend. “Which is?”

  “They want us reduced significantly—our technological advantage minimized and our military neutered enough to be fair to the rest.”

  Barnabas blew out a breath. “Some will want us to be weaker than that if they can get it.”

  “Of course, and that is where I hit them over the head with the Empress Bethany Anne stick. There is no fucking way they would ask this of her, so they don’t want her at the sessions at all.”

  “Why? Do they think you are weak?” Stephen asked.

  “They see me as Bethany Anne’s yes-man, or at least as one who won’t just randomly kill someone for disrespecting her during negotiations. Hell,” he grumped, “Addix told me in no uncertain terms that compared to Bethany Anne, they consider me a baby at the table.”

  “Seems like you should have Bethany Anne show up at least once,” Frank commented. “What are the plans?”

  “That wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Lance admitted. “If she comes back to us in a decent enough mindset, I’ll see if she would be willing to show up at least once.”

  Planet Devon, QBS Shinigami

  Baba Yaga walked toward the armory from the laundry area on the ship. “Who knew that stuff was so expensive?” she grumbled.

  ADAM’s voice came through the speakers as she walked the ship. “We were trying to protect your head.”

  She reached up to the back of her skull, which had healed, but the sympathetic pain was still there. “I can’t believe I did that. What a flaming rookie mistake.” She took a couple more steps before adding, “No, a rookie wouldn’t have made that mistake. I’m an arrogant…”

  She stopped in the middle of the hallway.

  “What is it?” ADAM asked.

  “Nothing.” She resumed walking. “I’ve got to armor up.”

  “It won’t be a fair fight.” ADAM commented.

  “Who said I wanted fair?” she retorted, then turned a corner toward the doors on the right, which swished open for her. “I just want it done.”

  “Then why not just hire it out?” ADAM asked.

  “That would be impersonal,” she replied, looking over the weapons on display and wondering which setup would be best. “I don’t want to just be a judge. We have proof of their law-breaking, and they have committed crimes heinous enough to deserve capital punishment.” She tapped a finger on her lips as she looked around. “And I have to be the executioner on my planet, as well.”

  The fixtures looked like they could have belonged in any well-designed kitchen: upper and lower cabinets, a countertop made out of an almost impervious material, and lighting under the upper cabinets.

  All done in blacks and grays with dark-green countertops.

  She reached into the second of the lower cabinets on that wall and pulled out a pair of M1911As. “Haven’t felt these in my palms in a while.”

  She set them on the countertop and opened an upper cabinet, selecting two 50-round boxes of ammunition. “Damn, so few rounds in one of these. I’m spoiled.” She laid the boxes beside the guns and started opening upper cabinets until, in the third one, she found some holsters that would work for the old pistols.

  She laid them on the countertop too.

  “Hmmm.” She looked around the room. The cabinets lined two-thirds of the walls, not including the bulkhead with the door, and a large island had been built in the center for additional workspace.

  The room was rather a large portion of the ship.

  She walked over to the middle set of cabinets on the back wall and opened the top ones.

  What she was looking for wasn’t inside.

  Squatting, she opened the bottom cabinet and whistled. She grabbed the lip of a lower drawer and pulled it out. Sliding on frictionless bearings, a display rack of swords came into view.

  “Eenie, meenie, miney, moe.” She reached out and grabbed a wakizashi. “You will be my friend tonight.” She stood and put it on the island.

  “That will require cleaning,” ADAM stated.

  “Where’s the problem with that?” she asked. “I’ve cleaned my swords hundreds of times.”

  “You just griped about tossing a cloak into a self-cleaning and drying laundry machine to get the blood out of it. All you had to do was close the door.”

  “I also had to push a button,” she retorted. “Might have chipped a fingernail.”

  If an AI could be exasperated, ADAM was. “You can’t chip a fingernail by pushing a button!” There was a pause before his next calculation was complete. “Without intent, anyway.”

  “Uh huh,” she agreed absently as she looked for a sheath. She pulled one out of a bottom shelf and went to the island, sheathing the sword and then setting it reverently back on the countertop. She stopped for a moment to look at the sword before walking over to the pistols and ammo boxes.

  She pursed her lips, then headed to the drawers which held her Jean Dukes, pulling them and their holsters out. “Let’s not be stupid,” she said as she put them on the counter. “Well, twice.”

  Ten minutes later she had her armor and helmet on. ADAM might have made a point about the futility of someone going up against her, but she was not going to find out the painful way that they di
d have something that could blow her damned fool head off.

  The Kurtherians, TOM would say, were too important for this shit.

  She, however, felt a need to have a place close enough to the Empire that she could get in, but still far enough away that the law was handled on planet.

  One day she might want to come here and stay awhile. Even people on the fringes of society needed a place to call home.

  People like her.

  She walked toward one of the aft doors, leaving her cloak behind. She was clad in the dark-red armor which looked almost black.

  Her helmet was full-face and painted to look like her, including fake hair coming out of the top. She would be able to breathe the atmosphere from inside her suit just fine.

  She had, however, kept her gloves on, which gave her protection but left her fingertips free.

  “Open the hatch,” she called to Shinigami.

  She peered through the doorway, which was some six feet wide, down into the darkness of the city. ”Drop us down about even with the tall skyscraper over there to the left,” she commanded as the ship came out of the clouds. “It’s really pretty from up here,” she said. “I think I might go for a swim.”

  She turned back to face the inside of the ship and spread her arms wide. Leaning back, she slowly fell out of the ship and sliced through the night toward a building below.

  Two hundred feet above the building the antigrav kicked in and slowed her down tremendously, enough that she barely bent her legs when she hit the roof with the four pistols on her body. The M1911As were in holsters under her arms, the Jean Dukes rode her hips, and the sword’s hilt peeked over her shoulder.

  She walked toward the roof’s edge. Below were plenty of aliens carousing throughout the night, then going back inside when they needed a higher oxygen content. For some of the aliens the air was breathable as it was.

  “Where is our first contestant, ADAM?”

  >> YukLeet. His main place is a bar. Two blocks over to your left. <<

  Baba Yaga looked down the street. “The orange-ish sign or the green one?”

  >>Green.<<

  Baba Yaga took two running steps before leaping through the night, the antigrav reducing her weight so that she crossed the darkness above the lights some stories below to land on the roof of the building housing the bar.

  Walking back to the edge of this roof, she looked down. “From the roof or from the front?” she murmured. ”Roof or front?”

  There was a break in the crowd. “Front,” she said, and took a step off the roof. The three stories to the concrete went quickly. She didn’t cut much antigrav in, so she slammed into the street, and chips of stone went flying as her armored boots hit the surface.

  The thirty or so aliens who were nearby turned to see the new alien in dark armor raise her white-haired head and turn toward YukLeet’s bar. She started walking toward the front door some ten steps away.

  The bouncer was a fish-like alien whose head reminded Baba Yaga of a hammerhead shark’s, although he had two arms and two legs. “Why is everything bipedal?” she wondered to no one in particular.

  At almost nine-feet tall he towered over her. “Stop!” He put up a hand and turned toward her. “Were you invited?”

  Baba Yaga shook her head. “No.”

  “Do you know anyone in here?”

  “Personally?” she verified. “No.”

  He made a movement with his body she assumed was a negative. “Then you do not have permission to open the door.”

  Looking him up and down, she asked, “Well, do you have permission to open the door?”

  11

  QBBS Meredith Reynolds, NS Squared

  Tabitha walked through the back hallways, the ones which usually had few others in them. They placed her just about a thirty-second walk from her favorite bar and eatery.

  The Never Submit, Never Surrender.

  It was now owned and run by the Joneses. The previous couple, Pearl and J.D., had passed away about fifty years ago. The present owners were a pair of Weres whom Pearl had liked. They had taken over in her absence, and everything went forward.

  She even heard the same bitching from time to time.

  Tabitha entered and looked around the dimly lit space. With Weres as owners, they kept the illumination down so that those with light sensitivity could be comfortable in their place.

  Hell, she noticed that since her last visit they had opened another side of the place.

  They were growing.

  She walked straight down the side, like she had hundreds of times before, to the last booth on the left.

  The man sipping his beer there was wearing jeans and a shirt that was comfortable but about as fashionable as dirty motor oil.

  “Move your Pricolici lard-ass over,” she told him, sitting down and pushing him sideways with her own. “Big badunkadunk, no?” She stopped a moment as he turned in her direction. “Prime badunkadunk moving in.”

  Peter blinked a second before conceding the space and allowing Tabitha to sit next to him. “And why,” he asked, tipping his bottle toward the other side of the booth, “can’t you sit your phat ass on that bench?”

  “FAT ass?” She turned to get a better angle to punch him from. “FAT ass?”

  “I said p-h-a-t,” he replied. “I didn’t think you were deaf.”

  “I’m not, you ass!” she huffed. “The only reason I haven’t given you the beatdown you deserve is that I am in shock!”

  “Wait!” Peter put up a hand. “How are you spelling phat?”

  “You have some cojones, even for a mental midget who grows into a big hairy mental midget. I spell it f-a-t.”

  “I’m spelling it p-h-a-t,” he replied, “so it was a miscommunication, Ranger Two. Stop spraining your ankle jumping to a conclusion.”

  Her eyes flitted left and right for a second while Peter took a sip of his drink. He allowed her a moment to look up the definition. “That word went out of use over two hundred years ago! Decades before we left.”

  “Yeah, well, what did it mean originally?” Peter asked, eyeing her.

  “Pretty hot and tempting,” she conceded. “So while you committed a major faux pas by using it at all, it was technically an accurate description of my badunkadunk.”

  “Which, I might point out, is older than two hundred years,” he replied.

  She eyed him. “My badunkadunk’s age is not in question, Mr. Peter.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your ass, Tabitha,” Peter responded, wondering how the hell he had gotten into this conversation with her. “I was saying the word was over two hundred years old.”

  She looked at him for a moment. “Oh.” She slid out, stepped to the other side of the booth, and slid in. She waved to the barman, making a ‘v’ with her fingers, and then pointed to her and Peter.

  A few moments later the barman brought over two more beers and took the one Peter had just finished in a rush.

  “Thank you.” He nodded to her and took a sip of the fresh bottle. “I’ll accept beers all night long, so don’t think I’m embarrassed to drink on your tab.”

  “I’m just trying to wear you down,” she informed him. A moment later they both snorted.

  Neither was going to get drunk anytime soon.

  “For what?” he asked. “We’re leaving…what, tomorrow?”

  “I think so. It’s up to Barnabas.”

  Peter gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “So tell me about it,” she said. “I came here to find you so you could talk it out.”

  “I’m not really all that much into talking about Todd right now.”

  “Fucker.” She looked at him. “You ever think maybe I need to talk about my losses?”

  His eyes narrowed. “No,” he admitted. “I figure you have enough friends in the Tontos. Hell, Barnabas can read your mind and help you.”

  She slid her bottle left, then right on the table. “Maybe he can, or maybe he is so old and has lived through so many lifetimes he
doesn’t remember exactly what emotion really is.” She took a drink and set down her bottle before looking Peter in the eyes. “Don’t get me wrong… I love him to death, but occasionally he is too old, wise, and stubborn to understand me.”

  Peter thought about it for a moment. “Thinks you are still a young girl?”

  “Fuck, I am still a young girl, you jerkweed!” she exclaimed. She tried to kick his leg under the table, but was only successful in kicking the steel plate mounted under the seat.

  Tabitha had kicked out the wood so many times in years past that the owners had applied steel plates to all of the booths in the bar.

  Her face scrunched up in pain and she squelched a yell. “Oh, sweet mother frankfurter! You dick, you moved your leg!”

  “And?” Peter smiled, his eyebrows raised. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “Cushion my foot,” she replied, bending her toes up and down as her healing finally minimized the pain.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so.” Peter shook his head. “Sorry, too many decades fighting to worry about your foot when I sense something coming at me.”

  She reached down to make sure her toes were all straight before placing her foot back on the floor. “Good reflexes,” she admitted. “Now back to my favorite subject.”

  “You?” Peter asked, a smile on his face.

  “See?” She pointed to him. “You get me.”

  “I see a woman who is masking her pain behind a façade,” Peter replied, understanding a bit more of what made this woman tick.

  “Don’t psychoanalyze me unless you have something meaty to go along with it,” she retorted.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Her face started to turn red and she rolled her eyes. “I walked into that one.”

  “I imagine you slide into them all the time.”

  “I’m usually better at verbal sparring,” Tabitha contended.

  “Why did you come here?” Peter asked, his grin from a moment before fading. “Did you come here to talk about Todd?”

  “Yes…and no,” Tabitha admitted. “Look, my first loss still hurts. I know you have lost people before, but Todd was your best friend.” She looked down at her beer as Peter studied her face. She looked up after a couple of moments, leaning to her left to look down the walkway past the booths before drawing back in. “Sorry, just making sure no one was there.”